


Love, War, and Other Reasons to Run for Your Life

by Villainyandgoodcheekbones



Series: The Hell-Raising Chronicles of the Trenchcoat Brigade [5]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen, Les Misérables AU, M/M, Trenchcoat Brigade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-05 03:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Villainyandgoodcheekbones/pseuds/Villainyandgoodcheekbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan and Courfeyrac have no idea what dealing their nonstop adorable couple-ing is like. The Trenchcoat Brigade intends to show them. Shenanigans ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which Feuilly is actually the scariest out of all of them

Bahorel and Feuilly are smoking already, and Grantaire leans forward until the cigarette between his lips flares as it catches the flame from Feuilly’s battered lighter. He leans back, taking a long drag, and through the smoke, he says “We good?”

They’re good. All formalities have been observed; the lighting of the cigarettes, the bottle of gin placed on the floor within easy reach (none of them actually like the taste, but John Constantine, patron saint and holy icon of all trenchcoat-ed hell-raisers, was and remains a Londoner, so Grantaire insists) and the usual jockeying for position that results in Grantaire perched atop his mattress, Bahorel sprawling halfway out of the only chair Grantaire owns, and Feuilly on the floor with his head against Bahorel’s leg. All three are still wearing the coats, since Grantaire is  a broke-ass art student who cannot afford both the rent on his tiny studio _and_ heat.

Grantaire nods. “Then this meeting of the Trenchcoat Brigade is hearby called to order.”

Bahorel’s leg shifts against Feuilly’s head, nudging him forward. Feuilly rolls his eyes and passes the bottle back to Bahorel without a sound. “You texted thirty _fucking_ times in ten minutes, and you already knew we were coming over. Explain.” Bahorel says, wincing slightly as the gin burns down his throat. Grantaire worries at his lower lip with his teeth, the way he does, and says, after a long pause,

“Jehan and Courfeyrac.” Bahorel smokes in short, violent bursts, and at the sound of the names, he stabs his cigarette out abruptly.  Feuilly blows a leisurely plume of smoke out between his lips.

“Are very dear friends of ours” he drawls, eyebrows raised. Grantaire nods empathetically.

“Of course. And we’re happy that they’re so happy together….” Bahorel props his jaw up on one fist, looking distinctly unimpressed.

“Look,” he says, “Not that your sense of dramatic timing isn’t just fan-fucking-tastic, but can we just skip to whatever the hell you were planning to say after the ‘but’?”

“E.E. Cummings.”

Bahorel groans, head slumping down into the crook of his elbow. “Do not say that name to me, do _not_ say that name to me, I will snap you in half, I swear to God!”

“Don’t forget the Shakespeare and the flowers” Feuilly adds, passing the bottle back to Grantire who takes a swig and chimes in with:

“And the Neruda. And the Keats. And the ‘Love Actually’. And the many, _many_ reasons why it is a cosmic mystery that they have not yet been cited for public indecency.” Bahorel has his beanie pulled down over his eyes, and the tendons in his wrist strain and flex as his hand curls in and out of a fist.

“Both of you are dead men. I will fucking carve your hearts out with a _spoon_ and _feed_ them to you.” He grits out. Grantaire holds up a placating hand, abandoning his cigarette to smolder in an ash tray.

“Look. I think we all agree that we’re thrilled they’re so happy, but they need to fucking _stop._ ”

The point is conceded. Bahorel pushes his hat back up.

“The problem is,” Grantaire goes on, “they’re not just a couple. They’re _the_ couple, the Platonic ideal of adorable couples. They don’t have any idea what’s like to be around them all the time.”

“The fuck are you getting at?” Bahorel demands flatly. And Grantaire gnaws his lip again, because this is uncertain ground he walks now.

“Weeellll…” he sucks his teeth. “They’re not the _only_ couple…” He is met by two identically expressionless and equally dangerous stares. Grantaire throws his hands up in hasty surrender, sloshing gin across his sheets. “I know, I know, you’re not a couple, you’re just…star-crossed heterosexual life-mates who also sometimes fuck. I get it.” He tosses back another swallow of gin, wiping his mouth on the edge of his sleeve. “But you could act like one.”

Bahorel glances down at Feuilly. “Hypothetical question: how much of the wall do you think I would have to take out before I could shove him in an air-duct?”  Feuilly hisses out another lazy drift of smoke.

“No.” he says flatly. “Figure out a way to keep me from choking on dry-wall grit and asbestos, then we’ll talk.” He takes another drag on his cigarette, and turning to Grantaire, asks “ What exactly do you mean?”

“You know how you two use ‘barbarian asshole’ and ‘you fox-faced little shit’ as terms of endearment? Pretty much the _exact_ opposite of that.” Feuilly opens his mouth to reply, but Grantaire cuts him off, adding, “Look, I’m not saying he’s not a barbarian asshole, I completely agree with you, I’m just saying.” Feuilly grins.

“Fuck both of you!” Bahorel starts in his chair, knocking Feuilly over and earning a vicious elbow slammed into his shin in retaliation. Grantaire raises his eyebrows innocently.

“Are you offering? Because I honestly think I would be okay with that, I haven’t gotten laid in weeks. Like, 90% sure I would be okay with that, but you know, I would have to check with the ginger to see if he’s okay with it. I mean, I would hate to get in the way of anything.”

Bahorel can make a lot of things look predatory. Including things that shouldn’t look threatening at all. _Especially_ things that shouldn’t look threatening at all. Things like sitting, very, very still, while casually tracing the snake tattoo curling across his thumb and index finger (Jormangundr, the world-serpent, brother to Hel on his other arm) and not saying anything at all. But Grantaire wonders sometimes if people have it all wrong, and it’s Feuilly they should be afraid of.

Feuilly just smokes quietly, looking calmly at Grantaire, and it’s actually _terrifying_.

“What did you have in mind?” he says and Grantaire blanches. “I assume you have some kind of plan to… _educate_ Jehan and Courfeyrac?” His expression doesn’t change at all, but Grantaire _swears_ that Feuilly is laughing at him somehow. Soulless ginger bastard.  Grantaire nods his head slowly.

“Everything they do?” There is a heavy, expectant silence. “You do it better.”


	2. in which I detail more of Bahorel's extensive collection of tattoos and encourage you all to give Jehan a slow clap at the end

Bahorel is laying sprawled on his back, with one leg hooked over the back of the couch, and his laptop propped on his stomach. He’s _researching_ , because if they’re gonna do this, they’re gonna fucking _do_ it, and do it right. By the same token, Feuilly is sketching Bahorel; it seems like the thing to do (that he’s gotten through six pages and two pencils merely indicates his dedication to the cause). It is, for once, quiet in their apartment.

Of course, it doesn’t last.

“You sneaky fuck!” Bahorel snarls abruptly, bolting upright. “You evil son of a bitch! Look at this.” He orders, stabbing a finger at the screen. Feuilly sighs, leaning over his shoulder.

“yours is the darkness of my soul’s return/you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars” he reads. “EE Cummings. Your point?”

 _Tap-tap-tap_ and Bahorel’s fingers fly over the keyboard, and then Feuilly is watching Khal Drogo cradle his wife’s face in his hands, murmuring “moon of my life”. She reassures him that she’s fine, nothing to worry about, “my sun and stars.” Bahorel raises his eyebrows. Feuilly is forced to concede that yes, EE Cummings and George RR Martin are sneaky, tricksy motherfuckers, who will pay in blood for the things they have done.

They spend two days “on recon” as Grantaire puts it, watching the way Jehan and Courfeyrac act around each other (they are living in a Disney movie. It is the only possible explanation). Then the plan begins in earnest. They wait until the next time everybody’s all together at The Musain; Jehan is perched on Courfeyrac’s lap, winding their fingers together and murmuring “Bright Star”. Then, as they walk in, Bahorel slings an arm around Feuilly’s shoulder, presses a kiss to his temple and says “Moon of my life” loud enough for everyone to hear. Feuilly nuzzles against Bahorel’s jaw, ruddy beard chafing the tender skin of his throat and breathes “Oh, you are going to _pay_ for that” against Bahorel’s neck. But out loud, he says “My sun and stars” and spends the rest of the evening tucked against Bahorel’s side as they pass a cigarette back and forth.

Feuilly exacts his toll when they get back home, pinning Bahorel to the carpet with a knee pressed into the small of his back and pushing his t-shirt up until the cotton traps his arms.

There are wings on the backs of his newly-bare shoulders, but only by a technicality. Milton’s Lucifer smiles and beckons on his left shoulder, while Michael, sword in a hand, guards his right, both copied from Dore prints. Feuilly grinds his knee down and pulls the short hairs at the nape of Bahorel’s neck, drawing a harsh pant from the other man. Michael and Lucifer gain bruised halos, painted by tongue and teeth while blunted, paint-stained nails rake across “I shall not fear/Fear is the mind-Killer” inked on Bahorel’s ribs.

They show up at the Musain the next day, and Bahorel has a split lip and mark just under his jawline that the beard can’t quite hide. Only some of the red and purple splashed across Feuilly’s forearms is paint. Grantaire gives them a withering, “are you _shitting_ me?” stare for all of a minute before Courfeyrac and Jehan walk in. Courfeyrac is walking just a little too stiffly. Jehan draws his braid over one shoulder absently, revealing what is _clearly_ a hickey. Of not inconsiderable size. Bahorel throws Grantaire a lazy salute and drags Feuilly with him over to a table. Courfeyrac glares.

So the _next_ day, Courfeyrac brings Jehan flowers, and they are incandescently, glowingly happy while Jehan weaves them into his hair. The ones that won’t fit turn into a crown for Courfeyrac, prompting an impromptu _Game of Thrones_ re-enactment (Courfeyrac protests at length that Renly and Loras _never even fucking met_ the Dothraki. Khal Bahorel and his loyal bloodriders frankly don’t give a shit).

Bahorel starts bringing Feuilly coffee, and even _Combeferre_ is jealous of that, because Bahorel makes the _best_ coffee. Nobody knows how he does it. It doesn’t even matter what kind of beans he starts with; even shitty generic-brand (which is frankly all they can afford most days) is obscenely good if Bahorel makes it. He claims knowledge of secret and arcane magics, black arts from the time before time. Feuilly breathes in the steam with closed eyes and groans. “If you ever stop doing this” he says between rapturous sips “I will make you suffer beyond imagining”

Bahorel is sitting with his legs splayed wide, Feuilly perched between his knees on the edge of the chair. Feuilly is sketching, and Bahorel leans forward over his shoulder from time to time to tell him that his still life needs more fire. Courfeyrac stalks over to them with a murderous look in his eyes.

“Stop.” He hisses. “Just stop. I know what you’re doing.”

They both look up, utterly guileless. “The fuck are you talking about?” Bahorel grins, resting his chin on Feuilly’s shoulder. “You have some kind of a _problem_ with people being affectionate in public? Fuck’s sake, Courf.”

Feuilly reaches back and rests his head against Bahorel’s head, smiling quietly.

Round One to the Trenchcoat Brigade.

Round Two starts with Courfeyrac and Jehan, heads bent in urgent, muffled conference.

“I love you, you know I love you, but this is _war._ We can’t let them do this, Jehan. They can’t win.”

“Shhh, we’ll be fine. Follow me.”

Courfeyrac runs. Jehan used to be a swimmer. The point of Shakespearean monologue used to be to get the whole thing out in one breath, and Courfeyrac, Lord High King of Theater majors, is unmatched in this. Jehan does slam poetry once a month.

They have an impressive degree of breath control.

Jehan marches Courfeyrac right into the middle of the café, and brings their mouths crashing together. And they stay there for exactly 4 minutes and 38 seconds, not stopping to breathe even once. Feuilly looks on, rubbing his raw, smoker’s throat. Then he looks down at the pack of cigarettes in his hand. Then he walks over, presses the pack into Courfeyrac’s hand, turns on his heel, and leaves without a word, taking Bahorel with him.

Round Two to the Court of Flowers.


	3. in which I say to you all in advance: round 5 is like the Avenger's Budapest • round 5 is like fight club• it's whatever you need it to be

Grantaire presses a hand over his heart, feigning shock. “Excuse _me,_ I am the _god_ of the ambiguously attractive scruffy hipsters. Libations of Pabst Blue Ribbon are poured unto me upon up-cycled altars covered in Instagram shots of pavement cracks and coastlines. There are vestal virgins who maintain the holy light of the Flickr stream dedicated solely to pictures of me drinking and staring out of windows. Now the sit the fuck down and let me help, or I sick the ginger on you”

Round Three started as an artists’ battle, but hostilities were temporarily suspended when Jehan got published in an anthology, and Feuilly was accepted at a local gallery. Now it’s a fight between Bahorel and Courfeyrac, and, there being no other fair point of comparison, it’s come down to “who, if single, would be more likely to get laid?”

Or, as Grantaire puts it, “who has the better batting average?”

Or, as Musichetta puts it, “Boys, please. Don’t even try; I’ve got you both beat ten times over”

To which Jehan responds by smoothing back Courfeyrac’s hair and murmuring that he’s perfect regardless, and that it’s not a question he is ever going need to answer ever again. _Ever._

Feuilly, for his part, rolls his eyes and drawls “ _Must_ we?”

To which Grantaire responds by flinging an arm around his neck, and crooning “Ygritte, my love, kissed by fire, are you _worried?”_

To which Feuilly responds by grinding his knuckles into the hollow of Grantaire’s wrist until he springs back with a yelp.

The rules are simple. They are going to go out to a club. And they going to count how many people go for Bahorel, and how many try for Courfeyrac. Neither is allowed to initiate, or accept any offer. Tonight being the night, the Trenchcoat Brigade has reconvened at Feuilly and Bahorel’s place for the final preparations.

“Look,” Granataire continues, gesturing eloquently (and only slightly drunkenly) “Courfeyrac is fucking _charming_. Courfeyrac could out-charm Professor Flitwick. Courfeyrac is not just _Prince_ Charming, he is deified Caesar, God-Emperor of Charming. And he will be in full hipster regalia. The man is three steps from a photoshoot on his _bad_ days, you need me.” Feuilly, leaning on the counter, scoffs around his cigarette and surreptitiously fires up the camera on his phone, because _this_ is gonna be good.

In the end, Bahorel ends up wearing one of Grantaire’s shirts, a black tank top which is tight enough on him, and almost pornographically so on Bahorel. He’s got a white dress shirt thrown over the top of that, with the sleeves pushed up and the fabric taut across his biceps. Feuilly isn’t sure if that makes things more or less obscene. He texts the pictures of the brawl which precedes Grantaire putting product in Bahorel’s hair, styling it into artful disarray, to Eponine (they become a cult internet hit).

Grantaire steps back, rubbing his wrist and resigning himself to Impressionism for the next week until he can make his fingers close properly again, and surveys his work with a smug (slightly bloody) grin. “Yep.” He says. “Like, 95% sure I would be okay with it.”

They meet up with Courfeyrac and Jehan, and Courfeyrac is indeed in full hipster regalia, looking like a photoshoot incarnate in his skinniest skinny jeans. To be fair, they’re good jeans, and they do him credit, but they are no match for _The_ Jeans. _The_ Jeans, in all their pale, dusty-rose glory, defy the laws of physics through the sheer might of their love for Bahorel; it is not in fact possible for jeans of any description to be loose enough to dip below a persons’ hipbones, baring a hint of dark skin and whorls of black ink, while simultaneously clinging to that person’s ass and thighs like a drowning sailor clutching driftwood to keep from downing. Such is the love of The Jeans, who do so anyway.

Round Three to the Trenchcoat Brigade, by a landslide.

The victory, however, is not without its price; the rules were to not accept _any_ offers. Not a single one. When they get back home, there’s a moment where they both just _look_ at each other. Then Feuilly finds himself pinned, chest to the wall, with Bahorel growling in his ear “You’re lucky I like you this much”.

He bares his teeth, and grinds backward until he can hear Bahorel’s breath catch in his throat and says “You’re lucky I let you”

The Court of Flowers takes Round 4 when Courfeyrac marches offstage in the middle of a show, and returns with Jehan in tow, who makes an even better Galatea than the original actress (and frankly, she’s glad of a night off). They double-cast him in the role after that, and he performs on alternate nights for the rest of the run.

Round 5 is a draw, and will never be spoken of again.

Round 6 begins, as usual, with everybody showing at up the Musain, since it’s a weekend and nobody has class, and it’s spring, and for once Feuilly’s not working. The café’s not open, but Nikolai Aranovich (Russian by way of Argentina), who owns the place has all but adopted Combeferre as a surrogate son, so Combeferre has keys (which they all copied) and they can get in in whenever they want. So Round 6 starts as usual.

Less usual are the sounds coming from inside when they arrive.

Entirely unexpected is the sight of Marius on his back, with Cosette straddling his hips, shirt open. Marius blushes a furious shade of red. Courfeyrac grins. Grantaire applauds slowly, joined by Bahorel. The nicotine exhale Feulliy lets out is low and impressed. Cosette arches her eyebrows imperiously, and jerks her head towards the door.

Nobody says it out loud, but everybody knows who just won.

Outside, in the warm Spring sunshine, wallets are dug out in the midst of curses and fond threats. Even Enjolras is at a loss for words.

“ _How_?” Bossuet chokes out at last. “How did you predict that? Are you even _human?_ ”

Combeferre smiles serenely behind his glasses, rifling his fingers through his winnings.

He nods. “Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure.”

(He gives Eponine’s half to Gavroche to pass along to her, and sends a text asking if she’ll thank Cosette on his behalf when she gets back home. In the meantime, he has books to buy.)


End file.
